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This regret was a very long time coming. This terrible, soul-wrenching regret was my punishment from God.
For eight years, He had spared me from true punishment. The widow of a wealthy mason, I was comfortable in all things within the home. I never wanted for money, my health had never failed me. I had a voice to match the angels, a smile to bring down cities. My town gave me a wide berth, but it wasn't truly so bad - I'd had the loyalty and company of Marie, my childhood friend, and the doctor, my lover.
But he was my lover no more.
The reason for my town's wariness was my son. The moment he was born, the rumors started. And they were not unfounded. The midwife who spread the rumors in the first place had been right: Erik, Madeleine's son, had the face of the devil. The visage of death.
But he was my son.
Oh yes, this regret was a very, very long time coming. That God kept me from it for so long was a mercy. Or, perhaps, it was a curse. Perhaps it was a way to build the regret up slowly. To put it on the fire and allow it to slowly heat, until it screamed at last, incapable of being ignored.
I'd been a terrible mother. A neglectful, abusive mother, blaming my only son - only child, only living family - for something the boy could not control. He was a genius. He was wondrously talented in music. And he was frightfully ugly. And the only thing I'd ever driven into his mind was that the third point was more important than the first two.
This realization, the understanding of the error of my ways, had come crashing into me when I watched Erik sobbing, burying our dog, heartbroken that he would never see her again. I saw how incredibly lonely he was, how that dog had been his one and only lifeline to any sort of joy, any companionship.
And God smote me with guilt and regret and anguish right then and there.
Erik had flown into a rage when he finished burying her, his heartbreak turning into anger at this world that had never shown him kindness, and the doctor, my lover, put him to sleep with some concoction. We laid my son on the couch. And then the doctor suggested:
"He should be institutionalized."
I stared at him, dumbfounded.
He explained: "He is unnatural. His mind is too advanced to be normal, and he cannot be around other people with that face of his. There are plenty of good asylums-"
"No."
He blinked in surprise. "No?"
I swallowed. "He's my son. And the answer is no."
The doctor opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again and stepped forward. "Madeleine, if we are to start any sort of life together, he will merely get in the way...you said so yourself-"
"I'm his mother."
"I know that, my darling, but-"
"And I must begin acting so. I must."
His brow creased.
"Will you not accept him as your own, if we wed?" I asked.
"If we wed-" Surprise lit his face. "So you are proposing marriage?"
"I am not - I asked if you would accept him as your own."
"I..." He shook his head. "Where is this coming from?"
"Please answer the question."
A pause. His lips thinned. Then: "No. I would not."
I looked away. "Then go."
He gaped. "This is so sudden. Madeleine-"
"Go. Do not come back until your answer has changed."
"My love-"
"Go!" I pointed to the door. "Leave our home. My son lives here, not you. Not until you change your answer."
He was shocked - and I didn't blame him. Just this morning, I lamented Erik's existence at all. But my decision was final on this. I would not fail my son again. The doctor saw this in my face, and finally went to the coatrack for his hat, put it on, tipped it, and left.
I was left alone with Erik, unconscious on the couch.
I considered leaving him there to rest, going to bed myself. But a horrible vision occurred to me: what if he awoke before I did and ran, having nothing left here to live for? What would I do then? He'd never know that his mother loves him...finally, after all this time, loves him.
So I went to him. I picked him up. He was nearly as tall as me, but all skin and bones, so half as heavy. No mask on now - he'd thrown it across the room in his agony.
I teared up, my throat becoming thick. I took a shaky breath and brought him upstairs. Not to the attic where I'd made him sleep all his life, but to my own bed. I'd hold him until he woke up, and then I would hold him some more. I'd hold him until he was sick of my arms.
The mixture that the doctor gave him was strong; he didn't even stir as I carried him. He didn't once twitch as I put him down and darkened the room, laying down next to him. I didn't undress him or myself, and I didn't disturb the covers.
And I slept beside my son for the first time in my life. I embraced him for the first time in his.
It was hours later when I awoke to a shifting under my arms, heard a very audible gasp. I felt Erik go stiff as a board, his breathing heavy. I opened my eyes to find him staring at me, disbelief in his gaze.
"Mother?" he whispered, strained. My heart broke a bit for that, too - I'd punished him for calling me "Mama".
"Erik," I said quietly, and brought a hand to rest on his sallow cheek. He gasped again, loud and heartbreaking.
"Mother," he said again, like it was all he could say. Like no words could ever express what he felt.
"I'm sorry, my baby." I ran my thumb over his skin. His breathing hadn't slowed. "I'm sorry for everything - I want to be a good mother to you. I'm so sorry, Erik."
My chest caved in when he sprang up off the bed. His hands shook visibly, and his chest rose and fell, a rapid, angry ocean tide. "This isn't funny," he ground out. "Mother, this is not - this is not fair."
I'd never played pranks on him before, but he'd done so to me. He'd left spiders in my teacups, hidden my bonnets when I needed to go out. He'd changed the sugar out for salt. Each ended in a punishment, but I think perhaps he secretly liked that. Punishment was attention, which was better than being ignored.
That he thought I was pranking him now-
"I'm not being funny," I said gently, and sat up. "Erik, when Sasha died..." At the mention of our dog, his face crumpled. "When she died, it made me realize that we only have each other. That I am the only mother you will ever have. It's my duty to behave like it. It took me this long to see that."
His eyes cast down. He didn't trust me. Why would he?
"Please let me be a good mother," I said. "Please. I want to try."
He swallowed. "What does being a good mother look like?" Erik looked up, and I saw fear - such fear, that I was being untruthful - but I also saw hope. I grabbed onto that hope and tugged.
I extended a hand. "Can we start by letting me hold you?"
He stared at my fingers. Up until now, my hands had only ever brought him pain. "Why do you want to hold me?"
"Because I want to show you that I love you."
His eyes snapped to mine. "No, you don't."
That thickness returned to my throat. "Yes, I do. I didn't see it until now."
"All because Sasha died?" he whispered.
I shared that same disbelief. It truly had struck me as suddenly as that. But there it was - that need to love him, new and beautiful and full of longing. I should have felt these things from the moment of his birth.
"I'm late in my feelings, Erik," I said. "I'm sorry." I extended my hand a bit further. "Please forgive me."
At the ache in my voice, he finally stepped forward to take my hand.
He'd always craved my affection. I didn't deserve it - never had. I resented it for all his life, but I was grateful for it now. His willingness to forgive for the sake of love.
Erik laid down next to me, and I wrapped an arm around his side. He seemed barely to breathe, as if afraid moving would make me disappear. Or change my mind.
"I'm not going anywhere," I whispered.
I felt him shaking suddenly, heard a sharp intake of breath, and realized with a shock that he was crying.
"Erik," I breathed, my very core shattering, and I kissed him on his cheek.
He cried out, like in pain.
Then sobbed.
"Oh," I said, and felt tears stream down my own face.
"You told me you'd never kiss me." His voice shuddered. "I asked you for kisses on my fifth birthday, and you told me never to ask for that again."
I squeezed my eyes shut. So much hurt and confusion in his voice. I'd destroyed him. Completely destroyed his heart.
I would do anything I could do rebuild it. Anything at all.
So I kissed him again.
Again.
Again.
I kissed him again, until his cries subsided. Until he fell back asleep. Actually slept, face toward me. I kissed him while he dreamed. And I kissed him again when morning came.
As the day broke, I decided:
The regret I felt, the shame that led me to finally comfort and love my son, hadn't been a punishment.
It had been a gift.
A precious gift.